MitchWilliams

The day started like no other. birds chirping, cars revving, proof that the morning had officially begun. Five hummed along to the song playing in his earbud, swaying his hips as he moved the vacuum back and forth across the carpet. YouTube played in the background, probably an old cooking video he'd seen ten times, and incense burned on the nightstand, thin ribbons of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.

Five had always taken Sundays off to help clean the apartment. His grandparents were down at the food truck, the familiar smells drifting faintly up through the open window, making an already cozy day feel even warmer.

He switched off the vacuum, and it slowly died out with a soft whir.

Then he heard it.

“Hey, friends! Mitch FTW here! And today we’re playing Raiders!”

Five froze.

Slowly, he pulled the earbud from his ear. An unfamiliar feeling tightened in his chest, a knot pulling tighter and tighter the longer the video continued. He stepped forward until he stood in front of the couch, then sat down without meaning to.

And suddenly—

He was thirteen again.

Sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, waiting for Mitch Williams’ stream to start. A bowl of popcorn rested in his lap, a soda cracked open to his left, the remote in his right hand connected to the Hinobi console, Raiders already loaded.

Just as Five hit play.

“Hey, friends! Mitch FTW here! And today we’re playing Raiders!”

The boy on the screen grinned.

Propping up his remote and adjusting his shoulders, Mitch leaned back in his chair, headset slightly crooked as the Raiders menu music looped behind him.

“Alright, friends, quick breakdown before we dive in,” Mitch said. “Raiders is a post-apocalyptic dungeon crawler with permadeath mechanics, so if you wipe, that’s it—no rage quitting and loading back in. You’re gonna want to crank your sensitivity up just a bit for faster turns, but not too high or you’ll overshoot your aim. I keep mine at 6.5. that's the Sweet spot.”

He clicked through the settings with practiced ease.

“Turn off motion blur, trust me. And audio? Max that out. Footsteps matter in this game. If you hear metal scraping, that’s a Stalker variant, and you do not want it sneaking up on you.”

His character loaded in, adjusting their armor.

“Early game strategy: don’t rush loot. Clear corners first. Check ceilings. And always conserve stamina. You sprint, you die. Simple.”

He smiled at the camera and tapped his temple.

“We’re playing smart today.”

At home, thirteen-year-old Five scrambled to match every single setting. Sensitivity to 6.5. Motion blur off. Audio cranked. He leaned forward exactly when Mitch did, copying the cautious corner checks, holding his breath when Mitch did.

When Mitch crouched, Five crouched.

When Mitch whispered, “Clear,” Five whispered it too.

---

Five blinked.

The apartment slowly came back into focus, the soft curl of incense smoke, the faint rumble of a bus passing outside, the distant clang of utensils from his grandparents’ food truck below. His heart was still caught somewhere between now and then.

Before he could think too hard about it, he reached for the remote. The Hinobi console whirred to life. The familiar startup chime echoed through the apartment, and Five swallowed as the menu loaded.

His thumb hovered for only a second before selecting it.

Raiders.

The title screen flooded the TV in muted grays and burning orange skies—the same ruined skyline he hadn’t seen in years. The same tense menu music that used to make his stomach buzz with anticipation.

On the other screen, Mitch’s voice continued.

“Alright, spawn point’s Warehouse District. Not my favorite, but we’ll make it work.”

Five’s hands moved automatically.

Warehouse District.

Confirm.

The loading screen flickered in, and for a moment he just stared at it, his reglection faint in the darker parts of the screen.

Older.

Taller.

Not thirteen anymore.

The game loaded.

Ruined buildings. Wind howling between broken concrete. Debris skittering across cracked pavement.

On the TV—

“Remember, don’t sprint out the gate. Clear your corners.”

Five’s thumb twitched off the joystick.

Right.

Don’t sprint.

He adjusted his sensitivity to 6.5 again—exactly like before. Motion blur off. Audio maxed. He could almost hear his thirteen-year-old self scrambling beside him, trying to keep up.

Mitch crouched on screen.

Five crouched.

Mitch edged around a rusted car, pausing before turning the corner.

Five paused too, heart pounding even though he knew what was coming.

“Clear,” Mitch whispered.

“Clear,” Five echoed softly to the empty apartment.

A metal scraping sound rang through both the TV and his console.

“There’s our Stalker,” Mitcvh murmured. “Hear that? Left side.”

Five nodded and turned left—

Too fast.

His aim overshot slightly, just like Mitch had warned about.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, something warm blooming in his chest despite the tightness still lingering there.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself. “Steady.”

On screen, Mitch landed the first clean hit.

Five fired.

Missed.

The Stalker lunged.

Five panicked, nearly hitting sprint before catching himself.

You sprint, you die.

He forced himself to breathe.

One shot.

Two.

The Stalker collapsed in a heap of metallic limbs.

Five stared at the screen, chest rising and falling.

On the TV, Mitch whooped triumphantly. “And that, friends, is why we play smart!”

Five’s lips curved into a small, helpless smile.

Back then, winning alongside Mitch had felt like being part of something bigger—like he wasn’t just some kid alone in his grandparents’ apartment. Like he had a teammate.

Now, years later, sitting on the same couch in the same apartment, he realized something that made his chest ache in a completely different way.

He hadn’t just been copying Mitch’s settings.

He’d been copying his confidence.

His steadiness.

His certainty.

Five shifted closer to the TV and set his remote on the table. He cracked his knuckles, just like he used to. Adjusted his posture unconsciously, mirroring Mitch’s relaxed lean.

“Alright,” Mitch said through the speakers, voice bright and certain. “Next room’s tricky. Watch the ceiling.”

Five nodded, grabbing his remote and squaring his shoulders.

“Got it,” he said softly as he pressed forward—

Following along step by step.

Just like he dod years ago.

Miko and Zahra are Victor and Emily!!